An Italian Wife

by Ann Hood

  Her breasts were so sore and swollen, covered in fat blue veins, that Josephine could not understand how they brought desire to him. But they did. He had never once even touched them, or seen them, until Carmine was born and she was nursing him. But Vincenzo ogled them anytime she had them out, which was most of the day. Sometimes Josephine wondered if other women’s husbands touched them. Or if every man did what Vincenzo did. She was too embarrassed to ask, but there were times when something in her longed for Vincenzo, fat Vincenzo, to caress her, to kiss her mouth, to touch her thighs.

  Once, so long ago now that she could not even remember when, between babies, she was washing herself in the big silver tub they kept outside, and her soapy hands gently scrubbed her thighs, then her inner thighs. Small charges, like electricity, shot through her. Tentatively, she washed where her babies came out. Usually, she did this hurriedly and with great efficiency. But this day, because she was alone in her yard and the touch of her own soapy hands had sent these small jolts through her, she washed herself there more carefully. Slowly, she rubbed herself, keeping her hand soapy and slippery. Yes. It felt good to be touched there. But also silly. And wrong. Josephine got out of the tub quickly and went and confessed this to Father Leone, who made her say a rosary for trying to find pleasure in such a sinful way.

  But it wasn’t pleasure she had been after, Josephine thought as she made her way to the strega’s house, which had come into view. It was tenderness. How tenderly Father Leone had taken her milk. Tenderness like this was a holy experience, wasn’t it?

  Josephine realized that the witch was standing outside the house, hands on her hips, watching Josephine approach. To Josephine’s surprise, the strega was beautiful. Her hair was in a thick black braid down her back, and her skin was smooth and clear. She had surprising violet eyes, and she wore pants, like a man. She was smiling at Josephine.

  “Don’t worry,” the witch said, “you will find that tenderness. But not for ten more years.”

  Josephine stopped in her tracks. The woman was most definitely a strega, to know what was in Josephine’s heart.

  “That’s why you came, isn’t it?”

  “No,” Josephine said slowly. But even as she said it, she wondered if perhaps it was why she had come.

  The witch looked down at Bella, still sleeping, and something crossed her face, then passed.

  “What?” Josephine said.

  The witch’s violet eyes rested on Josephine’s face. “Why did you come then?”

  Unsettled by the way she had looked at the baby, Josephine struggled for the words. “This is my seventh baby in ten years,” she began.

  “Too many, eh?”

  “No. But enough.”

  The witch laughed. She told Josephine to wait and she disappeared into the house. When she returned, she held a brown bag filled with sticks and twigs and dried flowers. “After you and your husband have intercourse, make tea with this. It will get rid of any babies you make.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to get rid of them!” Josephine explained. “I don’t want any more at all.”

  The witch laughed again. “Then tell your husband to leave you alone,” she said. “That’s the only way to prevent babies for certain.”

  “But the priest says I have to be with Vincenzo. Jesus ordered it.”

  The witch laughed, a sharp, rough sound.

  Then, unexpectedly, she drew Josephine into her arms, and soothed her, like a mother comforts a child. Her embrace, so strong and tender, brought tears to Josephine’s eyes. She thought of her own mother, back home—for Josephine always thought of that tiny village as home. Josephine could picture her rough, red hands, the line of dirt beneath her fingernails, the coffee-colored mark on her cheek. She could picture her mother the day Josephine left. She had stood straight and tall and dry-eyed. This is what we do for our children, her mother had whispered. We let them go, even as our heart breaks in two.

  But as soon as the strega released Josephine, she turned and walked away.

  Josephine called out to her, but the woman went inside the house without even looking back. Her mother had not waited for her either. Josephine had turned around once on that road that eventually led to Naples, expecting her mother to be standing there, only to find her gone. Now, unsettled, Josephine made her slow way toward home.

  ON THE FRIDAY in June that the ice man did not come, Josephine had not been a wife to Vincenzo in a long time. Although there had been a night here and there over those years when he had managed to make her open her legs to him, she always got up and made a cup of that tea from the bag the strega had given her. The children were no longer babies, and Josephine’s body had remarkably returned to its former slender self. Her breasts still sagged more than she would have liked, but the blue veins had vanished, and she noticed men admiring her when she leaned forward or wore certain dresses that showed off her full bosom.

  Vincenzo had grown so fat that he waddled when he walked. His hair had thinned, and he’d bought himself a black toupee that sat on top of his head like a crow. At night, he put the toupee on the lamp by the bed, and more than once Josephine had woken to think a cat had gotten into their room. Every once in a while, Josephine tried to talk to her husband. But he never seemed very interested. After dinner, he burped loud and long, sending giggles through the children, then shoved himself away from the table, heaving his large body up. He straightened his toupee and went to play cards and drink grappa down the street.

  No ice for a week in June meant meat went bad, drinks grew warm, everything had to be eaten right away. There were rumors that Alfredo Petrocelli had the Spanish Influenza and surely would die. But Josephine chose not to believe this. She thought of his cool hands, his muscles straining as he hoisted blocks of ice, his clean clear face. If anyone got the Spanish Influenza, surely it would be the filthy coal man. Or that Jacques LaSalle with his thing hanging out all the time.

  The next Friday morning, with all of the children at school or at work in the mill, Josephine was surprised when she heard a racket in the backyard.

  She stepped outside, still in her thin housedress, and found a man who was not Alfredo Petrocelli standing there with a block of ice. Aware of the sweat marks staining under her arms, and of her breasts against the flimsy dress, Josephine folded her arms across her chest.

  “You there!” she called to the man. “You startled me.”

  He turned and Josephine’s knees wobbled. Tall, with blond hair and green eyes staring back at her from a tanned face, the man in the black pants and white sleeveless T-shirt was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

  “Sorry,” he said in English. “I don’t know the drill.”

  Josephine frowned. “Drill?” she repeated.

  “I’m filling in for my cousin Al,” the man said, in rapid-fire English with no hint of an Italian accent. An American. “He’s pretty sick.” He studied her for a minute, then laughed. “You don’t know a word I’m saying, do you?”

  She shrugged and took a tentative step toward him. That’s when she realized she was barefoot, and her legs were bare as well. Bare arms, bare legs, no shoes, a flimsy dress hardly concealing what was beneath it. What was this man going to think of her? He was looking at her, and a blush rose on his cheeks.

  “Sorry to stare,” he said in terrible Italian. “But you’re really beautiful.”

  Now color rose in her cheeks. “No,” she said, waving his compliment away with her hands.

  His hand grabbed one of hers, and before she could pull it away, he was shaking it and saying, “Tommy Petrocelli. Your new temporary ice man.”

  “Your Italian is awful,” she told him, the heat from his hand spreading up her arm, making her sweat even more.

  “Sorry,” he said again. “I was born in the good old U S of A. My father is Al’s father’s brother. Tio?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  “Tio,” she said, then. “Uncle.”

  He laughed. “Your English is terrible,” he kidded h
er. “My mother is French, but she’s been here forever.”

  Josephine nodded, even though she had no idea what French was.

  “Ah,” she said. “Do you want to come inside for a drink?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Great.”

  He still held on to her hand, and when they both realized this, he dropped it quickly.

  Sitting in her hot kitchen at the table, beads of sweat on his forehead, he quickly drank the lemonade she gave him. They sat quietly.

  “Even the glass is sweating,” Josephine said finally, pointing.

  He laughed. Then they were silent again.

  “Mrs. . . .” he began.

  “Josephine,” she said.

  “Josephine. Have you ever heard the saying that every person has a soul mate?”

  She frowned at the word.

  He reached across the table and placed his hand on her collarbone. “Soul mate,” he repeated. “Some people, like me, believe that everyone has a soul mate, wandering the Earth somewhere. Not everyone finds theirs. But if you do, you recognize her immediately.”

  “Like fate?” she said, the pressure of his hand on her collarbone making her heart do strange things.

  “Stronger, even. Two souls wander the planet, and if you are very, very lucky, you find each other.”

  He dropped his hand quickly and stood. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  She wanted to tell him to stop apologizing. Was it them he was talking about? Soul mates? When he turned and looked at her out there, something had happened to her. Was he saying it had happened to him as well? Was this what people meant by love? Josephine wondered. But by the time she raced outside, he was gone.

  THE WHOLE NEXT WEEK, as first the rag man, then the coal man, came, Josephine thought about soul mates. Two people wandering the Earth, searching for each other. Hadn’t he said soul mates recognize each other immediately? She fed her children and slaughtered a chicken and sewed new dresses for the older girls and watched her fat husband eating, slurping and chomping. Maybe she had married Vincenzo simply to get her to America on that Friday when Tommy Petrocelli would find her. Soul mates, reaching across time and continents. She wondered what Father Leone thought of this idea. Did souls have mates?

  Tino the Turnip left her a half-rotten pineapple. Jacques LaSalle clanked by, his penis swinging. Josephine asked about Alfredo Petrocelli. Had anyone heard anything about him? Was he better? And although she didn’t wish Alfredo any harm, she was happy when Rose Palmieri said she’d heard he was still sick with the Spanish Influenza.

  On Friday morning, after Vincenzo waddled out of the house, after she’d fed all the children and sent them off, Josephine took a bath in the big silver tub. She put lavender in the water, and rubbed aloe from the plant she kept by the stove to treat burns on her feet and elbows. Then she put on a dress, one of the ones that made men look at her when she wore it. And she swept her hair up with a sparkling pin.

  Then, Josephine Rimaldi sat and waited. Just when she decided he wasn’t going to come, he appeared. He walked right into the house, and said her name, so soft and tender that tears spilled from her eyes. He reached for her, and she nodded.

  Tommy Petrocelli kneeled in front of her. He slowly lifted her dress and ran his large, cool hands up her thighs, as if he knew this was the very place where jolts of electricity shot through her. When his hand touched her down there and found her wet, Josephine was embarrassed. But then Tommy did the most remarkable thing. He kissed her down there. He licked her and sucked her and she heard someone moaning, loud. That feeling she’d had so long ago in the tub was back again. But at the point she had stopped, guilty and ashamed, Tommy kept going. The noise grew louder. Such moaning! Josephine was gripping Tommy’s head now, shoving herself into him, and she realized she was making all the noise. But she couldn’t stop herself. He was doing something to her, something she had been longing for. And when she found it, she knew. Her scream was like the cats in heat, but longer and more intense.

  As soon as it ended, Tommy pulled down his pants and lifted her onto the table, where he entered her. She was still trembling, wondering what had happened to her, when she realized he was not moving. He was inside her, and he was looking at her.

  “Do you believe it?” he whispered.

  She knew what he meant: soul mates. Her voice seemed to have vanished, but she managed to nod. Tommy Petrocelli was her soul mate. They were—incredibly, wonderfully—in love. So many questions bubbled up in Josephine’s throat that a strange, choking sound came from her. Would he take her and all these children with him somewhere?

  He took the pin from her hair, and he began to kiss her. Without those fast thrusts, Josephine was able to actually feel Tommy inside her. Soon she was clawing at him, begging him to move inside her. He moved so slowly that she thought she might die from the pleasure of it. And again those jolts were shooting through her, and she heard herself moaning, and she was digging her nails into his hard shoulders. Soon he was moving faster and grunting, and then she actually felt him come inside her.

  “Feel my heart,” she whispered. It was beating wildly. “I might die,” she said.

  “Le petit mort,” Tommy said.

  “Death?”

  “It’s French. They call it the little death.”

  FOR TWO MORE FRIDAYS he came to her, his hands cold from delivering ice. She brought him into the bed she shared with Vincenzo. She imagined leaving her husband, following Tommy Petrocelli anywhere he wanted her to. Everything vanished in the hour they were together each Friday. On the fourth Friday, Josephine woke with her head spinning, and the taste of vomit rising in her throat. And she knew.

  But she couldn’t let Vincenzo see her like this, or he would know too. She pretended to be asleep until he left for the mill. Then she buried her head in the chamber pot and puked. That day, Tommy Petrocelli did not come to her. He didn’t come the next week either. He never came again. People said Alfredo died. Some believed his cousin did too. The blond one who had helped out for a while. Soon a new ice man came.

  Josephine tried to think of what to do. It had been years since her husband had lain with her. If he learned she was pregnant, he might kill her. Unless he believed it was his. That night, when he heaved himself into bed, Josephine said, “Vincenzo, do you no longer desire your wife?” The words made her sick, but she had no choice.

  Immediately his hand forced her legs open. He grunted, like a pig. Luckily it was dark and he couldn’t see her crying. She imagined her passionless life, stretching endlessly before her. She wondered if she could leave this place, leave all of her children, and find Tommy Petrocelli? But even as she wished for such a thing, she knew it was impossible. She had no money; she didn’t even speak enough English to find him in the world outside this neighborhood.

  When Vincenzo climbed on top of her, his weight pressing down on her so that she couldn’t breathe, Josephine thought she might be sick. But she only had to count to five, and he was done.

  Throwing up into the chamber pot two weeks later, Vincenzo beamed at her from the doorway. “Poof!” he said. “I only have to look at you and you get pregnant.” He laughed, proud of himself.

  Josephine spent all morning throwing up. When she finally had nothing left, she lay in that hot August heat, imagining this baby inside of her. Tommy’s baby. In a way, she would have Tommy with her forever. She tried to picture it, this child. What if this baby had Tommy’s blond hair? Other than Jacques LaSalle, no one here had hair so pale. Everyone would know. They would remember how she had kept asking for him. They would remember how he always delivered the ice to her house last, even though she was in the middle of the street. As soon as she let herself imagine it, she realized she had to do something.

  Josephine went to see Father Leone. She had a lie all ready to tell him. He brought her into his study and offered her a glass of wine, which she eagerly took. Father Leone had one too. He placed the bottle on the coffee table, and came to sit on
the red leather sofa, right beside Josephine.

  “You’re worried about something?” he said kindly.

  Josephine nodded. Adultery and lying to a priest, surely she was headed for hell.

  Father Leone placed his hand over hers. “Tell me,” he said.

  She liked his voice. It was smooth, like the wine he served her. “I’m pregnant again, Father,” she said. “But with six children already, and at my age . . .” She shook her head.

  The priest refilled her glass. “Go on,” he said.

  “I just wondered if you knew any families who wanted a baby, who maybe couldn’t have one of their own.”

  “Such a selfless thing to do,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I remember your offering to God, Josephine. I think about it often. How selfless you were. But what does Vincenzo say about it?”

  “I haven’t told him,” she said, shaking her head again. “It’s complicated.”

  The priest didn’t answer. Josephine gulped at her wine. How foolish she had been to come here. A priest wasn’t going to protect a sinner. She should have tried instead to find Tommy. Even without money or English, it might have been possible. Wasn’t he her soul mate? The man she loved? She was crying now, and Father Leone lifted her chin and looked right at her, just like he’d done that day in the church.

  “Whose baby is it?” he said.

  “How could you ask me such a thing?”

  “You cannot get help or forgiveness unless I know the truth, Josephine.”

  Her mind was swimming from wine and early pregnancy, from having lost Tommy, from desperation.

  “You don’t have to tell me who the father is,” the priest said. “But don’t lie to me about the situation.”

  Josephine studied the ruby in the ring the priest wore. It was red and shiny. “Pretty,” she said absently, and touched the ruby with her free hand.

  “It can be arranged,” he said, “for you to have the baby in a hospital. Many women do this now, and if you can convince Vincenzo to send you, then all we do is tell him the baby died. The nuns there will give it to a family who can’t have their own baby. No one will ever know.”